


The Sun Also Rises

by Scruggzi



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Also she has a girlfriend now, Character Study, F/F, F/M, I'm going to Paris, Introspection, Rosie says fuck it, men suck, she deserves a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 12:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17766440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi
Summary: On her way to Europe and leaving Melbourne for the last time Rosie reflects on her life and the men in it.





	1. Rosie

**Author's Note:**

> I have a great love for Rosie. There is such subtly in creating a character who is a) the ex of the male love interest and b) not a fan of Phryne - but who never appears petty in her jealousy. She acts out of concern for Jack and probably on the basis of information from her dad who we discover to be a world class bastard. 
> 
> I would love her to have a truly happy ending and this isn't it, but I like to think it's a hopeful beginning to whatever she does next.
> 
> EDIT 15/07/2019 - It is kind of a happy ending now. Happier anyway. Rosie is bossing life.

The sky was overcast and still dark when the ship left the dock. Rosie wondered if that made it easier, the bay always looked so beautiful when the sun was shining. Then again, it was not as if this city held anything for her anymore.

It occurred to her that when she thought of ‘anything’, her thoughts were of all the men who had let her down; her father, Sidney, Jack. All in their own way a disappointment. It seemed such a narrow measure of the world now she thought about it. The bile rose in her throat, but she beat it down, proud of the way her face would show none of what she was feeling.

_It was no-one else’s damned business._

She had dressed in purple, a deep maroon that complemented her colouring to perfection. It was a little less respectable than was her want, a little more daring. She didn’t care. What did she have to prove anymore, other than to herself? Why should she care what anyone thought of her?

_She did though._

It was the injustice that stung. She had always done what was right, what was expected, and it had brought her nothing but grief.

She had been married young, to constable of whom her father thoroughly approved; an up and coming young officer he had taken under his wing. They had plans. She had been happy. Then the war happened. She could still remember it now, the two of them, barely more than children talking gleefully about how Jack would be home in time for Christmas, bedecked with medals that would secure his early promotion within the force.

The man who had returned was nothing like the boy who left. His laughing and certainty, that easy assurance that he could do whatever he set his mind to was gone. Replaced by shaking, sweating, waking in the night, eyes glazed, seeing things she could not see, and he would not describe. There was a wall they built brick by brick as their polite, respectable days gave way to night time terrors they never spoke about in daylight.

She looked out on the murky grey sea, tug boats bobbing up and down. After fish maybe? She had no idea what happened at the docks. No idea…

Rosie was not a stupid woman. She prided herself on it. And yet she had allowed herself to be deceived, by Sidney, by her father. He must have known. He _must_ have. He was not a stupid man. He used to say she was clever enough to have been a son.

_Bastard._

She was as clever as any son he could ever have raised, and her mother had been no simpleton. It was like everything else he did, a praise, silky smooth, that subtly undermined, sapping your strength like too much chill air on an empty stomach. Her whole life it had been there, and her own idiocy at not seeing it gnawed at her. There was so much blindness in love.

Sidney had been his idea too. A perfect solution. She was unhappy in her marriage. Stifled, unable to embrace the quiet life Jack wanted, unable to advance herself in society without a husband willing to dance that dance. She would never have considered divorce if her father had not brought it up, and Jack would never have betrayed his promises to her, however unhappy their marriage made him.

Had he broken her heart, or had she broken his? It had been years since they had separated and still, she was uncertain.

Well he was heading for heartbreak now apparently. She had not spoken to him since her father’s arrest. She repressed a shudder at the memory and again took pride in her self-control. She knew where he had gone after he left her, the two of them had hardly troubled to keep the affair a secret after all. Then the cruel, sneering of the rumour mill had merrily informed her that he had run off to England after _that woman_ …

The papers said she was twenty-eight; she had never taken Jack for the kind of fool to lose his head over some pretty thing ten years his junior. That was the story as the gossips told it, but Rosie had seen The Honourable Miss Fisher up close and the lie would have made her laugh if it wasn’t beneath her dignity. Thirty-eight if she was a day, and no amount of fine silk and charisma could hide it.

_Did that make it better or worse?_

She had never taken Jack for a fool, but then she had never taken Sidney for a monster. Perhaps Jack was a fool. Or perhaps he knew something she didn’t. Almost everything she knew about Miss Fisher came through her father and he had proved himself to be a worse traitor to her heart than either Jack or Sidney. She had always been his little girl, had always scrabbled for his love and his respect, idolising the odious man.  

Rosie breathed a deep, cleansing lungful of salt air, and realised with a sudden thrill, that it was no longer her problem. Her father was behind bars, and quite frankly he could rot there. Jack was a grown man, and she had no ties to him. He was as free to make his own mistakes as she had been; at least he’d had the grace to wish her well in them. Besides, much as some part of her would always love him - or the teasing, impetuous youth she still held in her heart from kinder, sunnier days - she did not want him back. Phryne Fisher could have him, if that was what he wanted. He was a good man, and she hoped the woman realised how lucky his love made her.

Her own mistakes could not be brushed off so easily. _Those poor girls._ She _was not_ a stupid woman, she could have found out, _she should have known_. She did not quite repress the shudder and the wave of nausea at the thought of letting Sidney Fletcher touch her. She had trusted him. _Loved him._ She shook her head, the feathers on her elegant purple cloche trembling slightly. She would not cry another tear for him. He was not worth even the ones she had already shed. If she ever found out which police officer had shot him, she would shake the man warmly by the hand. She had no plans to investigate.

The city was barely visible now in the early morning fog, a willow-the-wisp of bright light on the horizon. There was something almost magical about the sight, as if the mist was swallowing up her past life and leaving nothing but a blank canvas on which to paint her future. She found the idea rather appealing. It occurred to her that, for the first time in her life, her choices truly were her own. No parents, no husband, no fiancé to stand in mastery or judgement over her. The money her mother had left her, even combined with her divorce settlement had not made her fabulously wealthy, but she had independent means and she had learned to economise. No need for a husband to provide for her. No call for a man to hold her back. She could do whatever she liked.

The wind blew cold, a light spatter of rain hit the deck and she shivered slightly, drawing her fur collar up around her neck but did not move to seek shelter. The rain would pass, it was only a light squall.

Perhaps she would go to Paris. She had never been before but had heard wonderful things about the art galleries there. She could take up painting again herself maybe. Or dancing. She smiled at the thought of herself as a bohemian dilettante with a string of casual lovers, taken and discarded as she pleased.

Perhaps not. Paris though, that she could see herself enjoying.

A memory, sharp and clear as shattered glass...

She had read Victor Hugo’s _Les Misérables_ at the age of maybe twelve? The book had been a present from her grandmother, her father had claimed it would be too difficult for a little girl to understand, so she had obstinately read the whole thing. Looking in vain for praise from a man who would forever hide away anything he considered too rough a knowledge for a feminine mind.

She had painted a picture of little Gavroche huddled in the great plaster elephant that once stood at the site of the Bastille, a failed Napoleonic dream that had never been realised in bronze as it was intended to be. The little watercolour had hung for years on her bedroom wall, though God only knew where it had ended up. Of course, the Bastille Elephant was long gone, but perhaps she could go there, and see the place where it had stood.

It was such a ridiculous idea she almost laughed. It was a whimsy, a nonsense, pointless. Nothing the determined and ambitious Rosie Sanderson, or the pragmatic and practical Rosie Robinson would ever have attempted. If anything, that made it more appealing. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be either of those women anymore.

A movement at her side made her look up and she realised she was not alone. There was a woman of about her own age standing beside her; smartly if somewhat eccentrically dressed in ocean blue tweed and a truly horrible velvet hat that didn’t seem to want to stay put. She was fighting determinately against the wind, trying to light a gasper; finally managing it she puffed out a victorious plume of smoke and grinned as if she had just achieved a lifelong ambition.

“Want one?” she asked, proffering the packet. Her accent was strong, more Sydney than Melbourne, she must have been on the boat already when it docked.

Rosie had been about to reply that she didn’t smoke, but to her surprise, found herself nodding instead.

“Thank-you. You’re very kind. Mrs..?”

It was hardly the proper way to introduce herself, but neither was accepting a cigarette from a stranger with questionable taste in millinery. The woman didn’t seem to mind at all. She lit a second cigarette from the tip of her own with far less trouble than the first and passed it over.

“Miss Montgomery, but please, call me Helen. Miss Montgomery makes me feel like I should be acting my age.”

The woman smiled at her own joke, it was a nice smile, it dimpled her cheeks giving her the look of a slightly mischievous schoolgirl. Rosie had always sniffed a little at what her mother had called ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, but right now, she found she could suddenly see the appeal. What was so worthy in dressing as mutton, anyway? It had not done Rosie any good.

She took a thoughtful drag on her cigarette, it tasted disgusting, and made her feel a little light-headed, but she managed not to cough, and that was something. An idea occurred; an impulsive, ridiculous idea that would probably - no definitely - lead to trouble.

She stuck out the hand not holding the cigarette for Helen to shake. “Charlotte Parker, but Lottie will do. How do you do?”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, Charlotte was Rosie’s middle name, after the grandmother who had given her the copy of _Les Misérables_ , and who had been a Parker before she married. All the grandchildren called her nana Lottie – she would not have begrudged her the use of the name, Rosie was sure of it.

Helen took a last drag on her gasper and flicked the butt over the side of the boat, the orange tip gleaming in a faint arc as it fell towards the waves.

“Well enough, Lottie, but I could do with getting out of this cold air. They’re still serving breakfast if you’d like to join me?”

Rosie – Lottie, she was going to have to remember that – nodded, happy to have something new to take her mind off her troubles. The two women walked companionably away towards the dining hall, Helen chatting amiably about her life in Sydney and her time on board ship, the newly minted Lottie, content for now to listen, whilst she pondered who it was she now intended to be. There were so many possibilities after all, she could be whoever she wanted.

Behind them Melbourne slipped quietly out of sight, unremarked and most certainly unmissed. Slowly but inexorably a new dawn began to rise up, bright and clear through the mist, sending a frisson of silver shimmers over the deep blue sea.


	2. Lottie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's five years on and Lottie Parker has made a life for herself in Paris as an up and coming artist, but her first big gallery showing is interrupted by voices from her past...

“First one sold, love.” Helen whispered in her ear, placing a full coupe of champagne in her hand as she did so.

Lottie had not been intending to drink this early into the exhibition, but she hadn’t expected to sell a painting this soon into the evening either.

“So soon? Which one? Who’s the buyer?”

“ _Minuit sur la Seine_ , and I’ve no idea, I just passed it and the ticket is up.”

Lottie glanced over to where the painting hung, and sure enough, the little red card the gallery placed next to sold paintings indicated it had been bought. It was one of the first ones she had completed after arriving in Paris- a depiction of the river at night, all shimmering colours, blurred lines and reflections. It spoke of excitement, adventure, and of a life coming into focus in unexpected ways. She was proud of it, had even considered keeping it, but the walls of their modest little flat were already covered in her works, and Helen had been insisting for years that she could make a living off of them.

She had not expected it to feel so good; not just an endorsement of her talent from a stranger with no cause to flatter her, but a vindication of the life she had built since leaving Australia.

A life entirely her own.

Helen was twinkling blue eyes at her, wearing the self-satisfied look she always wore when she knew exactly what Lottie was thinking, and wanted her to know it. It appeared to take some effort, but at least she managed to avoid saying ‘I told you so.’

Lottie clinked the champagne coupe against Helen’s glass of merlot – she never did like white – and smiled in gratitude. She was under no illusions as to how much of this life was down to her partner, and her capacity for daring her out of her shell in ways she could never have imagined back in Melbourne.

_“I’m just surprised whenever you buy something other than a nude.”_

Lottie froze. The voice wasn’t loud, but it had cut through the gentle hubbub of the crowded gallery and pierced her heart. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not him.

_“Nonsense, Jack. Really_ , _you will give people quite the wrong impression of me.”_

Rosie felt the blood drain from her face. And it was _Rosie_ , returned after years of absence, conjured up by the unwelcome intrusion of her past. Helen heard the voice too; drawn by the familiar accent, she craned her head, peering over the crowd to make out who was speaking. The smile faded from her face when she saw her lover’s expression, the penny dropping at once. Lottie, fighting valiantly against Rosie’s desire to hide behind a mask of stoicism, squeezed her hand, reminding herself sternly who she was and who she had fought to become.

 “We can leave if you like. You don’t have to speak to them.” Helen always was quick on the uptake and she knew all about Rosie and her failed marriage – she had clearly guessed who the newcomers were.

It was tempting. Leaving that life behind her had been a struggle, every day, against who she had been taught to be, a world framed by the needs of men who had done nothing but disappoint her. Then again, she had nothing to be ashamed of - Lottie and Helen combined had spent some time convincing Rosie of that fact – and frankly, part of her at least was a little curious. She had never imagined _those two_ , her eyes wandered in the direction of the voices from her past, would still be on speaking terms, let alone travelling together.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Rosalind Charlotte Parker, set the entirety of her chin, and person in a determined line, and gripped Helen’s hand once more. “Let me introduce you.”

It was almost worth it to see the look on Jack’s face.

It was the same face she remembered, a little salt in his hair, a few more lines around the eyes, but mostly unchanged. He was a master of hiding his feelings, but then again, she’d been married to the man for sixteen years, and there were some skills that didn’t atrophy with time. To anyone who didn’t know him, his expression had barely changed; to Rosie, however, his jaw might as well have been hanging open. Miss Fisher had apparently picked up the knack of reading him as well, because as she followed his eyes, her own widened in surprise as she realised just who was walking towards them.

A flicker of mischief lit Lottie’s soul. It couldn’t hurt to tease them a little. A woman has to have her fun somewhere, and it’s not every day your former husband and – unless she was very much mistaken – his current lover, decide to gate-crash your first gallery exhibition.

She smiled warmly and, in a far more forward manner than Rosie would ever have dreamed of, extended her hand to the shocked Miss Fisher and introduced herself, speaking French, which she knew Jack had always had trouble understanding.

_“Good evening, I do hope you’re enjoying yourselves. Lottie Parker, I hear you’re interested in buying one of my paintings, Madame. ..?”_

To her credit, Miss Fisher barely missed a beat before answering with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm and in equally impeccable French. _“Phryne Fisher, but please, call me Phryne, and this is my partner, Monsieur Jack Robinson. Your work was recommended by a friend, who’s always had impeccable taste, but I have to say, she sold you short.”_

She turned to Jack, who appeared to be about to regain the power of speech and use it to ask uncomfortable questions. “Darling, this is Lottie Parker, the artist responsible for the painting you were admiring.” She couldn’t have been less subtle if she’d actually trodden on the man’s foot, but it appeared to have done the trick.

Jack attempted to respond in hesitant, broken French to thank Lottie for the welcome – but his expression telegraphed confusion, and a little hurt that she had chosen to treat him as a stranger. A touch too cruel perhaps, but the deed was done and there was no turning back now.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Robinson.” She replied in English, letting her eyes apologise, trusting that he could still read her as well as she could read him. “It’s nice to meet a fellow countryman, I haven’t been back to Australia in some time.”

He shook her hand, making no attempt at the continental kiss. His large, warm fingers were still achingly familiar, but it was nostalgia, not regret, that she felt as she let them go. 

“How do you do, Miss Parker? I hope the exhibition is going well.” He coughed nervously and glanced over at Phryne who was still smiling with apparently genuine warmth. “Miss Fisher tells me you’re a talent to watch.”

So… not married then. Still, it was really none of her business and she had long since said good riddance to the woman who cared so much about such trivial things. Besides, she couldn’t deny she was grateful for Miss Fisher’s quick thinking. The subterfuge was perhaps unnecessary, but she would really rather her past did not catch up with her tonight, not in front of so many people.

“You’re too kind. It’s early days yet, but we seem to be off to a promising start.” She drew Helen forward, not troubling to hide the way her hand brushed against her shoulder in _‘a gesture just a little too intimate’_ as Miss Fisher had once described it. Jack noticed, she could tell; the widening of his eyes gave it away, but it was surprise, not censure. Well, it wasn’t as if he had any right to judge.

“Please, allow me to introduce my good friend Miss Helen Montgomery.”

The stilted, genteel formality of the introduction congealed in air thick with unasked questions, and Rosie felt suddenly that she no longer wanted to play this game. She wanted to ask Jack how he was, to know if he was happy. She wanted to tell him about her life here, let him know how much had changed, for better and worse, since they had known each other.

Phryne and Helen were making polite small talk about the Parisian art scene and the odds of running into fellow Australians so far from home, when Rosie found herself looking into the sad blue eyes of a man she had once loved with all her heart. She could not have imagined on the day she left him, standing on the doorstep of her sister’s house, tears defiantly unshed, that she could ever see him again with so few regrets.

Miss Fisher placed a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture, and Lottie was pleased to find herself heartened by it. The two of them were happy, it seemed. Although one never could tell. Her own marriage had been testament enough to that.

“Darling, we really must be going, Veronique is expecting us.”

It wasn’t exactly a tactful exit, but Miss Fisher had sent Jack a soft, understanding look as she said it. Somehow it seemed to say immeasurably more than Lottie could read, and Jack’s silent reply was one that she had never learned to decipher. It had been a long time, after all.

“Of course, Miss Fisher. It was a pleasure meeting you Miss Parker, Miss Montgomery.” His eyes were on Rosie as he spoke, and there was such sincerity in them that she felt honestly ashamed of her disingenuous welcome. “We are staying at _Hotel d’Angleterre_. If you would care to join us for dinner later in the week, you would be very welcome. I’m sure Phryne would like the opportunity to buy up more of your collection.”

Phryne agreed, shaking both women warmly by the hand before wrapping an arm around Jack’s bicep, and steering him towards the door. The poor man still looked faintly shell-shocked.

Rosie was not fairing much better and Helen took the opportunity to steer her tactfully away from the crowd before raising her glass in salute. “I have always loved your mean streak Lottie. That poor man didn’t know what to do with himself.”

Lottie brought her hand to her mouth, shocked, but perhaps a little amused, at her own behaviour. Jack was a grown man with a life of his own, and they had long ago lost the power to truly wound each other. Still… it didn’t feel right to leave things like that after all this time.

The shrewd look on Helen’s face plainly said that her partner was reading her doubts loud and clear.

“He did invite you to dinner, love. If you feel that badly about it, perhaps you should take him up on the offer."

"When I first heard his voice, I didn’t think there was anything I wanted less, but now I’m not so sure...”

Mademoiselle Lottie Parker gave herself a little shake. She had worked hard to get here, and to become the woman she was. She was not about to let her former husband derail this night however unintentionally. Fortunately, no-one else appeared to have noticed anything amiss.

She caught Helen’s eye and beckoned her towards another group of people collected around an impressionist rendering of the Bastille Elephant that she was especially proud of.

They had work to do, and the evening had only just begun.


End file.
